


Illuminate

by bmnugent



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: AU, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-04
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2018-07-12 03:33:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7083628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bmnugent/pseuds/bmnugent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I’m on fire, can you see me burning up? I am reckless for your love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Illuminate

**Author's Note:**

> I can't stop, you guys. I can't stop writing Kabby fics. I remember reading a prompt somewhere on Tumblr about how Abby is an ER doctor and Marcus keeps getting into trouble to be able to visit her. I kinda wrote that... and more. Sorry for any grammar mistakes! Listen to Illuminate by WILDES. Thank you all for the kudos and positive reviews on my other fics so far! I love you guys!

“Abby, triage two,” a young nurse calls out to her, pointing to the room where her next patient awaits. Abby accepts the chart from the younger woman, eyes scanning over the relevant information in record time. Years of being a doctor has taught her how to see past the unnecessary. She doesn’t need the patient’s name, age, sex, occupation… she needs blood type, allergies, potassium levels, hematocrit and hemoglobin, white blood cell count. 

She’s still reading over the chart as she opens the door to the triage room, refusing to take her eyes off of the paper until she’s satisfied that she has everything she needs to be able to take care of this patient. Afterwards, she drops the folder onto the counter and reaches out for a pair of gloves.

“I’m Dr. Abigail Griffin. What seems to be the matter,” she says as she snaps on the last latex-free glove. She turns to face her patient and freezes. There’s a wounded FBI agent sitting up on the gurney in front of her. Most of his equipment has been shed and lays on the floor by his feet. There’s numerous cuts filled with shards of glass and dirt. They seem to be the source of all the blood on his face. 

“I’m fine,” he protests. “But my partner is in the next room and I’d rather you-“

She’s not paying attention to his words and he stops speaking, not wanting to have to repeat himself. He’s grown impatient over the past few minutes, but it doesn’t stop her from invading his personal space and running her fingers through his hair, checking for hidden cuts and bleeding. He’s quiet now for a different reason. She’s standing in between his parted thighs, her white lab coat falling over his black combat pants. 

Even with him seated, she’s barely tall enough to reach the top of his head, so when she tugs gently on his hair, he gets the hint to bow his head towards her so she can finish her examination. He closes his eyes at the feeling of this woman’s fingers pushing through his hair. But the sensation is gone before he knows it, and instead, her fingers are on his cheek, pushing his head to the side so she can examine his ears.

There’s no blood in his right ear, so she turns his head the other way to examine his left. 

“Tell me what happened,” she demands, her hand falling away from his face as she makes a move to turn her back to him. There are supplies on the counter behind her that she needs to be able to clean his wounds. But she doesn’t make it, because his hand comes up, fingers wrapping tightly around her tiny wrist. He’s pulling her back in an instant, back between his parted thighs. Her halt between his legs is so jerky, the pony tail she has her brunette hair in flies past her shoulders, and he can almost smell the coconut fragrance in the shampoo she uses. 

Her brown eyes never leave his and she doesn’t make an attempt to free her wrist from his grip. She can feel the heat coming from his body and she fights against the urge to let her eyes wonder down his chest.

“My partner,” he pleads, oblivious to the extent of his own injuries. 

“Is fine,” she finishes for him, promising. “I’m not the only doctor here, you know,” she reminds him. “But I can check up on her for you… if you’d like.” He releases her wrists after that, but she stays grounded close to him. 

“Yes.”

“After I clean you up.” It’s not a question, but more of a statement of fact. He licks his lips, presses them into a hard line to keep him from retaliating with a smartass comment, and simply nods his head. She lingers by him for a moment longer before repeating her movements and turning her back to him for her supplies. There’s antiseptic, sterile gauze, tape, and suture kits that she gathers in her arms and places beside him on the gurney. 

She’s too focused at the task at hand to notice the way he’s staring at her, watching her work on him. She’s cleaning the gashes on his face first, sweeping the gauze from clean to dirty. The first few sweeps aren’t bad, but she gets to one particularly deep cut on his cheek. The antiseptic is cold, but his skin is on fire. It’s unexpected and his hand comes out to grab her wrist again in an attempt to keep her from going any further, a painful hiss leaving his lips.

“Sorry,” she whispers. He’s realized what he’s done and gently lets go of her, his hands falling to grip the edge of the bed as she continues to disinfect his wounds.

—

He’s back in the familiar room only a few months later, sitting on the same bed and staring at the same wall. It’s not long before the door opens and she walks in, her face buried in the chart. It’s the same routine, he notices. She slaps the chart down onto the counter, washes her hands, puts on gloves, and turns to see him.

And she freezes, just like before.

“Dr. Abigail Griffin,” he says for her. Despite herself, she’s smiling. She notices that he’s wearing the same type of gear, but there aren’t hardly as many cuts and scratches on his skin as the first time she had assessed him. 

“What are you doing here,” she asks, taking her respectful place between his thighs, reaching up with gloved hands to check the integrity of his skin. The chief complaint states he’s been in a vehicle accident, but she asks anyway to get his version of the story. The wounds from his last visit have closed and healed well. She reaches into her lab coat pocket for a small penlight and shines it in each of his eyes, watching his pupils constrict and dilate accordingly. 

“Orders,” he says simply, watching as she removes the stethoscope from around her neck. She nods and places the ear pieces into her ear, holds the diaphragm of the stethoscope in her cupped hands for a few seconds, then lifts his shirt without warning and places the warmed metal directly over his heart. 

It’s strong and beats perfectly. She reaches out with another hand to steady him, her fingers splaying out against his pectoralis major, and she swears she hears his heart rate speed up a little. She moves to his lungs and instructs him to take deep breaths. 

The front lobes sound good, so she lowers his shirt and walks behind him. He’s still as she lifts the shirt up again, hands coming out to touch his skin as she listens to the back lobes of his lungs. She spends more time here and she’s grateful, because it gives her a reason to touch him. She notices the discoloration starting to blossom on his skin, and she’s glad he wasn’t hurt any worse than a few cuts and bruises. 

She doesn’t know why or how, but she finds herself oddly attracted to this frequent patient. The ethics make an argument that this shouldn’t be, that it isn’t right because he’s her patient, but when she walks around the table and comes to stand in front of him again, she can’t help but think he’s the most attractive man she’s laid eyes on since Jake. 

His dark brown hair is a mess of curls, and she knows from personal experience that it’s thick and soft. He’s got an untamed beard with specks of white and gray, and she wants nothing more than to feel it against her skin. She can only imagine what it would feel like against her cheek, trailing down her neck, between her breasts- she shakes her head, turning away from him and grabbing his chart to write down a few notes so she doesn’t have to meet his eyes. 

“Muscle relaxers. You’ll be sore from the impact.” She scribbles on her prescription pad, tears off the paper, and turns around to face him, leaning back against the counter. 

He slips off from the bed, pulls his jacket back on, and advances closer to her. The room grows instantly smaller than it already is when he comes to tower over her. He has to lower his head to actually look down at her. She’s not sure if he’s trying to intimidate her or turn her on, or both, but it’s working. 

“Are we done here?”

“Follow up in one week. I want to see how those bruises are progressing.” It’s hard to breathe; the air feels like it weighs a ton between them. He’s reaching out and for a moment, she thinks he’ll wrap her in his arms, but he doesn’t. He reaches for her hand that holds his prescription while simultaneously gripping the counter.

—

A week later, she’s grabbing his chart and flipping through it with a grin. Marcus Kane is back for his follow up, just like she had instructed. 

She breaks her routine this time as she walks through the door. 

“Marcus,” she greets him, and he nods.

 “Abigail.” 

“Abby,” she corrects him, throwing his chart onto the counter without bothering to look over it again. “How are you feeling,” she asks as she turns to wash her hands, skipping over the gloves.

“Sore, just like you said.” She’s drying her hands on a few paper towels when she nods to him, eyes flickering down to his chest.

“Take off your shirt,” she instructs, her heart fluttering at her own words. His eyes fall to her lips as he reaches for the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head in one swift motion. The balled up material falls to the bed beside him, and her eyes scan his body. The bruises are in different stages of healing, some purple, some almost black, some yellow. 

His thighs are parted in anticipation that she’ll take her rightful place between his legs, and she does. Her bare hands come out to trace over the bruises on his skin. His own hands come up momentarily, wanting to steady her by gripping her hips, but he catches himself and they fall back to the bed. 

“Do they hurt,” she asks, taking her precious time in mapping out every muscle and curve of his chest. She wonders if there’s any other medical reason for her to see him again in the near future, because this is becoming a dangerous habit. 

“Not anymore,” he answers honestly. She tears herself away from his chest and moves to his back, where the bruises there look identical the ones she’s just seen. She knows he’ll be fine, but it doesn’t stop her from touching him more.

—

It only takes a month until he’s back in the second triage emergency room. She wants to laugh when she reads the name on the folder that rests outside the door. She grabs it, knocks, walks in, and finds him out of his uniform. He’s sitting on the bed dressed in dark jeans, a gray shirt that’s tight on him and shows off his muscles. 

“What is it this time,” she asks, washing her hands and turning off the water, drying them before turning to face him. “Gunshot wound? Broken ribs?” 

Personal space isn’t an option for them anymore, she realizes as she walks in between his legs. But this time is different. His hands reach out instinctively for her hips and he pulls her closer to him in a rough fashion. The room is spinning and his lips are recklessly close to hers. Her hands are on his shoulders to uphold her balance and there’s a voice in the back of her head telling her she should have locked the door. 

“It’s you,” he replies, fingers slipping under the thin material of her navy blue scrubs, finding bare skin. “You are my problem,” he complains, his voice barely above a mumble, afraid passing nurses and doctors outside will hear him. “Fix it,” he demands. 

She’s dazed for a moment, his close proximity and his scene intoxicating. But she appreciates his desire, because it’s the equivalent of hers. So she takes it upon herself to minimize the distance left between them, their lips meeting in an open-mouthed rage. He inhales sharply as her lips caress his own, her tongue coming out to explore his mouth. His hands are smoothing over her hips until they’re covering a large portion of her lower back, pushing her forward until their chests collide. Her own hands have left his shoulders and are making their way to cup his face, her fingers brushing over the rough of his beard. He moans into her mouth at the feeling of her hands on his face again, much like the first time he’d ever been touched by her. 

They’re fighting for control over the kiss. He slides off of the hospital bed, coming to tower over her. Their lips never part. His tongue slides against hers, and before she knows it, his hands trail down her ass and hook under her thighs. He lifts her up effortlessly, her legs encasing his waist. He deposits her gently on the bed he was just sitting on, effectively switching their positions. His hands snake up to the tops of her thighs to push them apart even further, then make their way to her lower back once more to push her towards the edge of the gurney. He swallows one of her precious cries as he presses against the junction between her legs. 

The force of his kiss is so powerful, she’s leaning back onto the gurney and has every intention to bring him back with her. But she tears her lips away from his painfully and places both hands flat against his chest, gently pushing him back. Her abdominal muscles are burning from the position she’s in, balancing herself between his body and the hospital bed. Her head is spinning. He’s practically a stranger, she’s at work, anyone could walk in on them at any moment, she could lose her job…

“We can’t do this here,” she whines. 

“Like hell we can’t,” he challenges her, his lips seeking out her neck. Her hands fly into his hair and she sighs, closing her eyes and melting into his arms. 

“Marcus.” He can feel himself respond to the way his name falls from her lips and realizes he wants to hear her say it in every way humanly possible. “I’m serious.” His lips disengage from her neck and his head gently falls to her shoulder in defeat. He steps back slowly, offering up his hands to help her down from the bed. 

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes, looking partially embarrassed he’s let things get this far. She straightens her scrubs and lab coat, then helps him fix his shirt and hair. He’s watching her closely as her hands trail down his back and slip into the back pocket of his jeans. She’s pulling out his phone, unlocking the home screen and typing away. She presents his phone back to him within a few seconds, her contact information now saved in his address book.

And like that, she walks out of the room, leaving him disheveled and curious.

Moments later, his phone vibrates. One new text message from Abby Griffin. He smiles.

—

There's a knock coming from his door. He's been anticipating her arrival all afternoon, practically staring the clock down and counting down the minutes until her shift would be over. He takes long strides to reach his door, opening it and revealing Abby Griffin, complete in her navy blue scrubs minus her white lab coat. 

"Afraid I wouldn't show," she asks as she allows him to pull her into his apartment, closing the door behind her.

“I wasn't sure how open you were to the idea of meeting up with a stranger in his apartment.”

“You’re not a stranger,” she says, pushing him back onto his couch. His arms come back to rest against the back of the couch and he watches her with a smirk.

“So you know everything possible about me?”

 “Yes.”

“Elaborate.” 

The grin that appears on his face is enough to knock him dead. 

“I know your full name is Marcus John Kane. You’re forty-two years old, born on April 23rd. You’re allergic to penicillins and codeine.” She’s straddling his lap as she speaks, the thin material of her scrubs not doing much to provide a barrier between them, and he’s too intrigued with her confession to move. His hands stay planted against the back of the couch even with her crawling atop of him. “When you were seven years old, you fell out of a tree and broke your arm. Ten years later, your appendix ruptured and you were in the hospital for almost a week because the surgeon who removed it was an idiot.” He realizes she’s reciting his medical history, and her attention to detail is astonishing. His hands come to rest on her hips as her fingers play with his hair. “Your blood type is AB positive, same as mine. You’re five feet, eleven inches and you weigh-“

He silences her with a forceful kiss, arms wrapping around her and coming to stand from the couch with her still in his arms. It’s a blind path to his bedroom, and he bumps into a few walls, pushing her up against them in a frantic pursuit to his bed. She moans into his mouth every time he stops to push her up against the solid walls of his apartment, rattling the framed pictures that are hanging a few inches away from her head. She’s managed to grab a hold of the bottom of his t-shirt and pull it over his head, breaking their kiss only for the shirt to slip away from his body. His lips seek hers out the second his shirt hits the floor. 

He makes it to his bedroom, sets her down on his bed gently, and she reaches down to pull the scrub top over her head. He grabs her wrists before she can lower her hands to rid herself of her scrub bottoms. The gesture is familiar and he brings her wrists up to his lips, pressing gentle kisses to the spots his fingers had gripped her there months ago. 

The remainder of their clothes comes off and she's pulling him down on top of her. They kiss, touch, test limits; she arches up into his hands every time his lips find a certain spot behind her ear. He grabs her hands, pushes them above her head and laces their fingers together, pressing her hands into the mattress of his bed and keeping her stretched out beneath him. She's begging, crying into his ear, moaning out his name, and it's not until he pushes into her that she's silent, her open mouth pressed to his shoulder as he starts to move his hips.

—

She wakes up first with his arms wrapped loosely around her waist. She's pressed up against his bare chest and she smiles to herself as the events from last night replay in her head. It's not long before she can feel him stir behind her. She turns to face him and finds him slowly blinking, eyes trying to adjust to the sunlight pouring into his bedroom. 

"Morning," she says, propping her elbow up on his bed and letting her head rest in her hand.

"Good morning." He's reaching out for her, his hand finding her bare hip as he pulls her closer, pressing a sweet kiss to the top of her head. She settles back into the bed as he turns slightly, his hand reaching behind him for his phone that's resting on the nightstand. He's got a loose hold on it, bringing it around to check the time and any missed calls or messages, until it slips out from his grasp and lands straight on his face. 

“I’m going to have to roll you in bubblewrap at this rate,” she laughs, lifting the phone off from his face and setting it back down on the pillow besides him.

**Author's Note:**

> There it is! I can't write sex scenes to save my life. But I'll try one day! Thanks in advance to everyone who likes it! :D


End file.
